


Fire and Ice

by Embracingtheplotbunnies



Category: game of thrones
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Lots and lots of snow, Romance, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-12-04 18:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embracingtheplotbunnies/pseuds/Embracingtheplotbunnies
Summary: Jonerys drabbles/ficlets written during Season 7 (separate from requested prompts). Can also be found on tumblr!





	1. Cloak

**Author's Note:**

> As promised. 
> 
> Not a multichapter, but I did say on my tumblr that I was going to be writing a short oneshot/drabble ish thing every day during season 7 and I thought I'd keep them all here so they'll be easier to find. No distinct timeline/may not happen in canon, different genres-sometimes a mix of a few different ones. All are Jonerys or Jonerys related and take place in season 7. I may be taking prompts-feel free to leave a suggestion and I'll consider it, because I do have to write 46 more of these. 
> 
> Also on my tumblr @ blue-roses-in-a-wall-of-ice
> 
> I'm posting the first three chapters simulataneously, from my tumblr. I know I'm a few days behind but I'll catch up by the end of the season. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own GOT; all rights to HBO and GRR Martin
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’m not cold." 

Jon sounds like he’s trying to hold in a laugh. "You’re shivering." 

"I’m not shivering.” She’s shivering. It’s not her fault that no one told her just how cold the North would be. It tears through her cloak like icy knives and she wonders how so many people can stand to live all the way at the top of the world. 

"Really?“ He still sounds amused. Next to him, Ghost darts into the tree line-she hopes he’s hunting an animal and not a human. The soldiers who accompanied her don’t need any other reasons to be frightened of the strange white wolf. "Are you sure?" 

"Of course I’m sure.” She’s the Queen, after all, and Tyrion is forever telling her not to be vulnerable-even around Jon, who she’s starting to see is not like everyone else. 

"I’m sure Sansa can spare a few furs for you. I can have the servants bring them up to your room-“ 

"I’m fine.” Or, she thinks, he could bring them himself. Preferably at night, when the rest of the castle is asleep… She tries to shut that thought down the second it crosses her mind. They’re here to plan battle strategies, not to do whatever she’s insinuating.

The wind howls around the ramparts of Winterfell, chilling her to the bone and making her wish she’d thought to bring that cape Tyrion left for her the night before. But Jon is still looking at her strangely so she doesn’t dare let on that she’s cold; she purposefully takes a step forward, even though she’s fairly confident that her eyelids are going to freeze to her face. 

"Stay still for a moment.“ He moves quickly; with one smooth move he undoes the clasp of the heavy fur cape around his shoulders and places them over hers instead. She lets out a gasp involuntarily as soon as the (welcome) weight settles on her shoulders because it feels so…foreign. Not just the fur itself but the idea of him wearing it. 

He pauses before he can clasp it shut, with one hand still on her shoulder. "I’m not going to hurt you.” He says it quietly, carefully, as if trying to reassure her-even though he’s the last person she’d expect to hurt her. But another tone enters his voice that gives her pause; it’s slightly embarrassed that she would think that of him, maybe even slightly protective of her? Regardless, it isn’t what she expected from him. But Lord Snow does that a lot these days, whether it’s feeding Ghost off his own plate or the way he knows each of his men by name or how his hand feels on her arm when they go for walks like these on top of the ramparts-in full view of the guards, of course. He’s not what she expected-in fact, he’s not like anyone she’s ever met before. 

"I know.“ She lets him fit the clasp and the cape settles around her shoulders. She can practically feel the heat radiating off of it, still warm from his body. 

They stand looking out at the snowy landscape for a few more minutes, and when they go back inside (she’s still wearing his cloak) she hates the snow a little bit less than she did when she went out.


	2. Snowballs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A free night at Winterfell after a snowfall has some unexpected consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an idea I've been playing with for a couple of weeks now. Yes, I know it's not going to happen in canon but it's just cute. At least in my opinion. 
> 
> You'll notice the chapters are short; it usually only takes me half an hour at most to write them because they're designed not to take up a lot of time (I still have AUs, original work, and works for NTD to do as the season progresses, not to mention working). 
> 
> See disclaimer
> 
> Enjoy!

Dany doesn’t see why in the world people would ever want to throw snow at each other. Snow is bad enough as it is, without having someone dump it on you when you’re not expecting it.

But no one’s told Jon and Arya this. The night rings with the sounds of their laughter as they run around the castle courtyard, stopping only to scoop snow into small packed balls or hide behind a statue so they have the perfect vantage point to let it fly. She’s tempted to laugh because it’s so rare to see them like this, without the weight of the world on their shoulders.

She stands just inside the doorway of the castle, well away from the flying snow. Arya manages to hit Jon with a ball of snow that explodes right next to his head, covering his hair in bits of white crystal-and she can’t help it, the laugh comes out, because he looks so absurd standing there looking absolutely shell shocked. 

Immediately they both stop and look at her and she feels almost sorry for disrupting their fun. 

“Your Grace,” Jon says carefully. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” 

She shrugs. “The meetings got out early. Don’t let me get in the way.” 

Arya creates another snowball, a wicked look in her eyes. “Why don’t you join us?” It’s hard to know who looks more shocked at the prospect. 

“Arya,” Jon says, “I don’t think the Queen has any interest in…” 

She doesn’t know why she agrees to it-maybe because she wants to surprise him, because she likes the way he looks whenever she does something he wouldn’t have expected, like he has to reexamine everything he’s ever thought about her. “Actually, I do.” 

The snowball is just a blur of motion on the edge of her periphery-until it smashes into the side of her head. Arya has the good grace to look suitably sorry. 

For a minute she can’t think because it’s so cold; some snow gets past her high collar and falls down the back of her neck. But she’s seen what they do when these situations arise; she kneels down in the snow and begins forming a snowball of her own. 

Arya barely has time to smile before it thuds into her shoulder. “Not bad, for your first time.” 

Jon’s smile is like the sunrise after a month of darkness. “Arya, we might as well show her how to form decent snowballs.” 

By the time they go inside, long after the moon has reached its zenith, they’re all shivering through their furs with snow in their hair-but they’re all smiling, even Arya (who looks incredibly smug). The courtyard is littered with the remains of their snowball fight and Dany is glad that no one was looking outside, that no one sees the evidence of the few hours that they all acted like children again.

She wants to keep it between the three of them-a little secret they’ll remember but won’t tell, at least until the next snowy night.


	3. Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The sky was purple like a bruise when they left Dragonstone to head North'
> 
> Or, I used a color for a prompt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is extremely short because I wrote it at 10:30 last night when I was also getting a substitute to work for me today. 
> 
> The prompt says it all; I wanted to write something but I couldn't think of any ideas so I just...picked a color. And I guess it went okay. 
> 
> I think that's about it. See disclaimer in first chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The sky was purple like a bruise when they left Dragonstone to head North. 

It was almost funny to see the way that the Queen and her advisors talked about his home-they always seemed to say it with a capital N, North, reverent and mystical. Maybe to them it was. They were mostly Essosians; he wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d gone their whole lives without seeing snow. 

He wondered how they would take to it, particularly the Queen. Probably not well. 

The boat tossed at anchor in Dragonstone’s ports, surrounded by the wreckage of other ships from the battle only a few days before. But that had been before; before they realized what was at stake, who their true enemy was. The royal flagship had been nearly destroyed; he could see the Ironborn shipbuilders scuttling in and out of it looking impossibly small against its bulk, repairing massive holes gashed in its sides by Euron’s fleet. They were taking the second biggest ship, the Visenya, instead-and altogether he wasn’t displeased with it. He had more than enough space to unpack in his quarters, and a small window overlooking the roiling sea. 

Both sky and sea roiled, like his stomach as he thought about what they might see when they headed north. What could be waiting for them at Winterfell, or beyond? And even with what dragonglass they’d managed to find on Dragonstone, he doubted there would be even close to enough to stop the Walkers. 

Dany stood next to him and he was surprised, as he always was, to remember how small she was compared to him. But she stood straight and tall, watching expressionlessly as her castle-her home-grew smaller and smaller in the distance. She inhaled imperceptibly, hands tightening around the ship’s railing while the wind tried to unravel her carefully braided hair-and he got the feeling that he sometimes did when he was around her, that she was a million miles away from him. 

His heart jumped at the thought of going home again, while she was leaving hers. 

He wanted to say something, to say that they would be back, but he didn’t-knowing better than anyone that might not be true. Not when he’d seen what he had. And he didn’t like to make promises he couldn’t keep. He knew all too well what it felt like to have to break them.

So he didn’t say anything. He just stood beside her as the Blackwater loomed in front of them-and then they were off into open water. One of the dragons let out a soft cry as they flew overhead, wings beating in time with the flapping of the sails-as if they too knew the seriousness of the moment. 

When they rounded the corner and left the bay, he couldn’t see the castle at all.


	4. Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany makes an unexpected alliance while waiting for Jon Snow to arrive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know it's been forever since I updated this but I got busy writing prompts on tumblr around the time 7.03 came out and that was basically everything I was writing hehehe so I've decided to add the few drabbles I actually did write during season 7, usually right after or before the episodes. 
> 
> Written pre 7.03-probably closer to 7.01 actually, so it's slightly canon divergent. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Dragonstone was growing more crowded by the day. So many people were moving in daily, Tyrells and Martells and other houses she could barely name. The Northern delegation was the smallest, with only two men, but even they seemed to stretch the castle beyond its capacity. Gone were the days when she could wander its empty hallways and consider her relatives who had once lived there, fleeing the Doom of Valyria and the ruin of their colonies. But it only made her more aware of the great divide between past and present-and, hopefully, what could be her future. 

Dany wasn’t surprised when she didn’t recognize the scribe right away. She briefly remembered Tyrion telling her something about a girl from the Reach, a distant Tyrell cousin, that he’d hired to write some of the Queen’s letters to minor houses. She worked quietly and diligently at her task, in a small antechamber off the queen’s solar, crouched over a piece of paper with a quill and ink from sunrise until nightfall, and she accepted the coins that the Queen insisted she take at the end of every weekend with a curtsy and a shy smile. As a scribe, even though she couldn’t have been much older than she was the first time she stood in Astapor in the Plaza of Pride, the girl’s work was exemplary-she could write double the letters that Tyrion could in neat and precise penmanship. 

Tyrion’s writing was anything but neat. Sometimes Dany could read it, if she really applied herself-but mostly she didn’t bother. 

But this morning was different. She wrote two letters and shook her hand out, scooting her chair over slightly to look out the window. Dany couldn’t help looking too; the Tyrell forces were out practicing. But the girl seemed to have eyes for only one in particular-a boy who looked barely old enough to be a man, with golden blonde curls and a smile that showed two rows of white teeth. He was tall but wielded his sword with the grace of a dancer, as he knocked soldier after soldier onto their backs and then helped them back up again with a kind smile.

She crossed her solar and paused in the doorway. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

The girl jumped so hard her hand accidentally knocked into the ink bottle, spraying ink all over her dress. She scrambled to her feet, desperate to contain the damage. “Your Grace, I am so sorry-”

“It’s my fault. I startled you. We’ll call a maid to deal with the mess-it shouldn’t take long. But I don’t know how long you can go on wearing that dress.” She looked her over carefully, thanking the gods she wasn’t taller. “How would you like to wear one of mine?”

The girl’s cheeks flushed a bright red and Dany realized that she still didn’t know her name. “I couldn’t, your Grace-”

“Of course you can. I’ll go get it for you. What’s your name, dear one?”

Now she looked absolutely shell shocked. “Lauren, your Grace.”

“Lauren. That’s a pretty name. And do you live in Highgarden?”

“Yes, your Grace.” 

She couldn’t help smiling at that. “So you’re used to a crowded castle.”

Finally, the corners of Lauren’s mouth turned up just slightly. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was as close as she’d gotten. “More or less.”

She gestured out the window, where the soldiers were still sparring. “Do you know any of them?”

“A few, your Grace. They trained at Highgarden, with the masters-at-arms.” 

“And are you friends with any of them?”

The blush ran up the back of her neck. “Ah…not really, your Grace. I knew a couple of them when we were younger but not now.”

“Who’s the one who seems to be teaching everyone else?”

“Eldritch. He’s a cousin to Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers. He’s been training with a sword since he could walk.” The girl smiled wistfully, with a hint of longing in it. “He’s wonderful.”

“He certainly is. Please.” She ushered her into the solar. “Take a seat, make yourself comfortable. I’d say you’ve more than earned a short break. I’ll be back shortly.” 

She returned with a dark blue dress and Lauren’s jaw dropped even further. “Your Grace, I can’t accept such a gift-”

“Then I command you to take it.” Lauren went back into the other room and changed quickly, coming to sit back in front of the heavy wooden desk and looking anywhere but at the Queen. The dress seemed to fit nicely, although she was practically shrinking away from it like it could bite her if she wasn’t careful. “Did you know Eldritch when you were younger?”

She twisted her hands in her lap. “No. Not as well as I might have, at least.” 

“But you talked once in a while?”

“Yes. He trained with my older brother, actually. They were very close.”

“And where is your older brother?” 

She looked away. “Dead. He was in the Sept of Baelor when it was destroyed.” 

It made her blood boil-yet another crime, another innocent death Cersei would have to pay for in good time. “I’m so sorry. Were you close?”

“Not terribly. We weren’t awful to each other, the way siblings are sometimes. We just didn’t have much in common.”

She nodded, remembering her own brother. He’d been good to her once, she remembered, perhaps had even loved her-until they had to sell her mother’s crown just to stay alive. That had been the last she’d seen of the kind brother, who had let her eat too many sweets and stay up late to watch men swallow fire in the marketplace. “They’re tricky things.”

“Brothers?”

“Men. You never quite know what to expect from them. But back to Eldritch.”

“What about him?”

“Would you like to go talk to him?”

She hadn’t thought it was possible for Lauren to blush any harder, but the scribe was trying to prove her wrong. “Ah, no. I’m…busy with letters.”

“I could give you the rest of the day off.” 

“That’s not necessary. It’s…nothing. I don’t…he doesn’t want…”

“How do you know?”

She laughed mirthlessly. “How do I know? He’s the nephew of the Lord of Highgarden. He’s meant to strategically marry someone from a noble family.” 

“Times change. And he’s at war now. Men adore being pleasured before they fight on the battlefield-”

“It’s not proper-”

“I’ve done it before.” That shut her up immediately. “I lay with a man who wasn’t my husband-more than once. Do you think any less of me for it?”

“Of course not your Grace but…Westeros is different than Essos.”

“Only because we let it. Or…say you don’t want to let things go that far. You could talk to him as a companion. He can’t fault you for that.”

“But he may not want to talk to me.” She was playing with her fingers again, stacking them on top of each other and laying them flat so she wouldn’t have to look at Dany. “I’m not like the others.”

“Is that why you don’t sit with the maids at mealtimes?” Now that she really thought about it she couldn’t remember ever seeing Lauren in the dining hall. She took most of her meals in the small room off the solar. 

“I’m sure they’re lovely. It’s just…they all think that women shouldn’t need to know how to read or write because all they do is cook and clean and raise children anyway. They’re nice enough company but…I don’t think they’re looking for another tablemate.” 

Now it was Dany’s turn to look away, because the girl in front of her wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. 

At least this time, she was in a position to help. 

“Men-and some women-have the wrong idea. Have you heard of Visenya Targaryen? Rhaenyra Targaryen? Nymeria of the 10,000 ships?” Lauren nodded after each name. “Say what you will about their accomplishments, but they didn’t let having a pair of teats stop them from being powerful. And neither should you. Read all of your books. Write all of your letters. But don’t be afraid to give them a chance. Some of them may even feel the same way you do-but they won’t tell you outright.”

“Your Grace…when I had the chance to come here, I did everything I could to be able to go.” The words came faster and faster, as if the floodgate was finally let down and the words were flushing free in a tide. “I heard my father talking about you when you were still the wife of the great khal of the Dothraki. And then, slowly, you gained more power-ships and armies and cities. And you rule not just with fire and blood, but with peace and justice as well. I suppose there was some part of me that wanted to learn from that. From you.” 

She took the girl’s hand and squeezed, tightly. “And I’m so glad that you came. You’re right-it’s not easy, becoming someone you aren’t used to being. And it will take time and patience. You’ll still feel unsure of yourself and vulnerable sometimes, but everyone does. But first and foremost, you have to learn to trust in yourself. Believe in yourself above all else, before all other people. Have faith, have confidence that you are enough-that you know the path that is set before you and the person you want to be. Once you know that, once you accept it…you can conquer any fear that comes your way.”

Lauren’s eyes were filled with ill disguised, painful hope. “And you believe that will work?”

“It worked for me. And there will always be a place for you in my court, whenever you’d like it. To be literate is a precious gift-treasure it.” She glanced back outside, where the soldiers were just disbanding for the midmorning break. “If you hurry, I think you might be able to catch Eldritch while he’s on his break.”

Lauren smiled, like the summer sun coming out from behind a cloud bank. “Only for a minute or two.”

“Take as long as you like. The ink will still be here when you come back.”

She sprang up from her seat, a new spring in her step, and sank into a curtsy. “Thank you, your Grace.”

“Of course. And Lauren?” Lauren skidded to a halt just outside the doorway, nearly having to catch herself on the edge of the frame. “Look him in the eyes. The way to a man’s heart is always through his eyes.” 

“Thank you, your Grace.” With that she fled the room, and Dany heard her boots on the stairwell taking the stairs two or three at a time to the ground floor. She was proud to notice that, just for the second she caught sight of her retreating back, she looked considerably happier. Good. No one who worked for her should have to be miserable. 

Dany sat back in her chair, feeling distinctly satisfied. Maybe she hadn’t been able to save Eroeh. Maybe she would always feel responsible for the deaths of her handmaidens. There were so many women she had failed to protect, failed to help-but there were others that she still could. 

Just then, Tyrion walked in. “Jon Snow would like to see you now.”

“Send him in.” Her heart fluttered nervously, the way it always did in circumstances like these when there was something at stake-whether it was a simple alliance or her very life. But she tried to dispel the nervous thoughts. I’ve survived worse than him, she thought. Let Jon Snow do his worst; she would be ready. 

She was so close to the Iron Throne, so close that she could almost taste the victory in the air, could almost see it in her dreams. She wouldn’t be stopped now.


	5. Traveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany prepare to meet each other (not a first meeting story)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in the week leading up to 7.03, published way later

I. 

He hasn’t been to White Harbor in years, but nothing’s changed in all that time-even though so many years have come and gone. The town is hunkered down against the cold, the doors of inns shut to keep out the chill, and what few people hurry past him with their heads bent against the wind are clad in heavy furs. They’re winter people, like he is. The blood of the North flows in their veins, keeping them warm on the coldest of nights. 

None of them seem to notice him or Davos or the contingent of guards that follow them a few paces back. He’s glad of it; he doesn’t want to have to explain where he’s going or why, when the controversy it wreaked at Winterfell was unbearable. 

He doesn’t want to be here, heading south, but he doesn’t have another choice. Daenerys Targaryen has dragonglass, which he needs more than he needs gold or a crown. He trusts Sansa; the North will be in good hands. It won’t be in anyone’s hands except the wights if he can’t convince the Dragon Queen to help him. 

“What do you think dragons look like, Ser Davos?” They’ve reached the dock, where a ship flying the Stark banner rocks and creaks at anchor. It’s a conversation piece more than anything else, to distract them from where they’re going and whatever might happen there. 

What will he do if the Queen refuses? She’s the last, best hope he has against the storm, but what if she doesn’t believe him? He can’t leave without dragonglass. 

“I’m not sure, your Grace,” Davos says as they board, looking vaguely disgruntled. “I suppose they’re large. More trouble than we need.”

White Walkers aside, Jon is inclined to agree. 

 

i. 

A raven arrives from Winterfell and just like that Jon Snow is sailing to meet her. 

Dany isn’t sure what to make of this new development-then again, she’s already run ragged with Yara’s capture and the deaths of two of the Sand Snakes. Yet another tally in Cersei’s book, another reason to make her pay with her head. The last thing she needs is another potential enemy. And she can’t tell what kind of person Jon will be. 

Tyrion hires more servants than she knows what to do with from the surrounding villages and puts them to work cleaning the castle top to bottom. She’s busy most of the time now, forming new contingency plans since her old ones have so obviously gone to hell.

She drinks every once in a while now. She’s starting to see why Tyrion likes it so much. 

Sometimes, when she has down time, she thinks about Melisandre’s words. The Princess who was Promised. As if maybe she has to do more than win a war with a pyschotic queen; if the red priestess can be believed, the real enemy hasn’t yet shown its hand. How much is she expected to do? And what kind of role does Jon have to play in the events to come? 

She doesn’t believe in soulmates and she doesn’t believe in prophecy. She wouldn’t believe in magic, either. But isn’t she proof of that? If dragons exist, why shouldn’t wights? 

Even so, she tries not to think about it. 

But sometimes she can’t help it-during her meetings she’ll find herself looking out to sea even though she knows there’s no feasible way the Northerners could have arrived yet. 

She can’t help wondering what the King in the North will look like-will he be another enemy, or ally? He has to be delusional, because if he’s not…what could possibly be coming next? 

 

II. 

It’s been nearly two days since the ship left White Harbor and already Jon finds himself thinking of home. Not the dreary castle that he and Sansa now inhabit-where he finds himself looking over his shoulder every few minutes, sure he feels his family’s ghosts watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake. Winterfell, the castle of his childhood-where he and Robb were knights and played with wooden swords and Arya chased them around and wanted to play too, where life wasn’t perfect but he’d been part of something. And he’d been loved. 

Sansa kept insisting that it was a trap, even when he hugged her goodbye for what he hoped wouldn’t be the last time. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is all an elaborate trap. Maybe Daenerys Targaryen is insane. But he’d like to hope that she isn’t. He’d like to hope that maybe for once things will turn out all right, gods be willing. 

Davos walks over to him, moving as easily on the rolling sea as he does on land. “Your Grace.”

“Ser Davos. What have you heard about this Daenerys Targaryen?”

“Not much for sure, my King. The sailors have heard some things out of the Free Cities, but little and less of it amounts to anything. They speak of her as if she’s some kind of god-they say she has her family’s beauty and fire, but none of the cruelty of her father.”

“But she wants the throne. And even the best of people do the worst of things when power is involved.” He sighed. “Do you think she’s dangerous?”

“Truthfully, your Grace? I can’t say for sure. But she won’t be looking to make new enemies. That much I can tell you for certain.” 

He barks out a laugh. “Sansa would be right again, only this time she wouldn’t even have any of my bones to lay in the crypts. I assume the Dragon Queen feeds her enemies to her dragons.”

“We’re not enemies, your Grace,” Davos replies, bracing his arms on the railing and staring out at the sun, setting in a ball of fire on the distant horizon. “Not yet, at least. Besides, you’ll have been one of the only people in the Seven Kingdoms to see live dragons, won’t you? It’s an exciting way to die, if nothing else.”

His mouth can’t decide if it wants to smile or grimace. “Yes, it certainly is.” 

 

ii. 

She’s been staring out at the water for the last hour and half, unmoving. There’s something about it that captivates her-the way it bunches together and then slams itself down upon the rocks, how it carried her unharmed across the waves but destroys anyone unlucky enough to fall into its watery embrace. 

And somewhere on it is the King in the North, coming to parley with her. 

Tyrion has been talking about Jon nonstop; it’s almost gotten to the point of embarrassment. He reiterates again and again what a good man he is; how he cares for his subjects the same way she cares for hers, how he knows what it’s like to be abandoned and alone. How he’s accomplished some things that other men can only dream of, how he’s brave, and how he came back from the dead. She thinks he must be a giant, with the gnarled trunks of trees for arms and solid rocks for hands-sometimes the image appears to her at inappropriate times and she has to hide the urge to smile. 

He hasn’t brought up the idea of a marriage alliance but Dany knows it’s only a matter of time. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting something.”

Speak of the devil, she thinks. “You’re not.” He pulls out the chair beside her and they sit in silence, the wind playing with their hair. “Have we decided where Jon Snow will stay when he arrives?”

“We’ve found a spare bedroom that isn’t infested by mice.”

“Lovely.” 

He eyes her critically. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’ve been upset ever since you landed-and I know it’s not just because of what happened to the Greyjoys and Martells. I can’t let you burn yourself out now, before the real fight even begins.”

She can feel a headache coming on, pulsing at the back of her temples. “I was born here. I should remember it more than I do. I suppose I thought that…by coming here…I would find answers to what I should do, the kind of person I should be.”

“You can’t blame yourself. You were an infant, barely more than a newborn. And it’s natural that you aren’t sure of yourself. Most people aren’t sure of themselves, even when they’re twice your age. I’m sure Aegon wasn’t sure of himself when he lived here, although the histories might pretend otherwise. You know better than anyone that the winners write history however they want it written, even if it’s not accurate.” 

She steeples her fingers. “Lord Tyrion, you would tell me if you ever thought I was…too cruel, wouldn’t you?”

“You have my word. And you can’t depend on your ancestors for the answers you seek-they’ll come to you in time. You’re not your father, Daenerys Targaryen. You’re not your grandfather, or your brother, or any of the past kings that ruled the Iron Throne before you. Even Aegon the Conqueror. Don’t pretend that you are. They all made mistakes of their own-don’t repeat them. You don’t have to.” 

She doesn’t say anything else because she’s not quite sure what to say to that. She doesn’t know what to say to any of this, really-now that not only is she conquering the Seven Kingdoms but there’s a prophecy and a threat that no one else seems to know about. Instead, she just keeps looking out at the waves. There’s something calming about them, about the way that they rise and fall, break and reform. 

Tyrion stays with her and they listen to the music of the sea until the sun goes down and they’re dragged back into another night of war councils and map reading. 

 

III. 

Jon’s beginning to wonder if the sea means to rip apart the boat before he makes landfall. For the last few days the sky has been stormy and grey and the boat scuttles down one wave and up the side of the other quickly, as if outracing certain death. His sailors, hardened by many crossings like this one, mutter under their breaths quietly and move around tensely. 

The seasickness comes late one night, in the middle of a particularly bad squall. One moment he’s fine, reading a book in his cabin by the light of a shaking candle-and the next he’s fleeing for the window and retching over the side. His sick pools in the waves for a moment before it’s drowned just like everything else. 

Davos makes him a tonic to settle the stomach, but he spends the rest of the night and most of the next day curled up in his bunk and utterly miserable. He’s glad he decided to leave Ghost back at Winterfell; he doesn’t think the wolf would like open water much or have the good sense to vomit out a window. 

The Dragon Queen was born during the greatest storm in living memory. It destroyed her father’s fleet. He tries to imagine that, the wind gusting around the harsh and craggy towers of the castle, howling to cover the cries of a newborn baby. Motherless. Like he is. 

The few times he does slip into sleep his dreams are clouded with a growing darkness, of things that move beyond his sight and his skin being covered in pale white frost. 

And the roar of a dragon, loud enough to wake the fire of the living in the bones of the dead. 

 

iii. 

The rain outside Dragonstone lashes down in sheets. They strike at the windows like pounding fingers-and the servants in the kitchen find, much to their chagrin, that the roof has more than a couple of leaks. 

She breaks her fast in the dreary dining room, a long table meant for half a hundred occupied only by her and her closest councillors. Those who still remain. Tyrion, Missandei, Varys, and Olenna Tyrell. A few Unsullied commanders, those who didn’t go to Casterly Rock with Grey Worm. Several lords of smaller houses in Dorne, stepping in for their missing leaders. Only the Iron Islands do not have any representation. 

Will Jon Snow be another enemy? Will he be another to try and rip away what she has worked so hard for? 

She goes to bed early, claiming a headache-which isn’t quite false. 

Lying in her bed, staring up at the darkness of the ceiling, she hears a loud crack of thunder echo above her-as if the sky is breaking open and the stars are about to fall. Was that what it sounded like to the old Valyrians, her ancestors, when the Doom swallowed them up? But their reckoning came in the form of fire instead of water-a much more merciful death, in her opinion. Death by fire is quick, while drowning is cloying and slow. 

She was born in this very room. Perhaps in this very bed. How could Stannis Baratheon and his wife sleep here for so many years, knowing that the former queen of the Seven Kingdoms had died and the very air itself was still stained with her blood? The sorrow of it is practically a living thing, making it hard for her to sleep sometimes. 

When that happens she drags her chaise lounge out onto the back balcony and falls asleep listening to the song of the waves far below her. 

How can this room feel so foreign and frightening to her, when it was the place where she came into being? How could she have forgotten something so important? 

And yet when she falls asleep, sometimes she thinks she can almost remember her mother’s face, the sounds of her cries of pain, the cool of the air when it caressed her face, lying in a cradle in a blanket embroidered with dragons. But when she wakes up, the memories are always gone and all she’s left with are the vaguest of thoughts and recollections. 

It makes her lonelier than ever. 

This castle has ghosts. Whoever doesn’t say that ghosts are real is just kidding themselves. She can feel them around her, at every moment. 

She just doesn’t know what they think of her. 

 

IV.

The night sky is filled with stars.

That’s one thing Jon’s learned since he left White Harbor-he sees more stars on the ship than he ever did on land. There are all of the constellations he knows and loves from childhood but there are others too, others he can’t name. Sometimes he sits out on the deck with the sailors, who teach him how to stargaze or sail by the light of the moon. There’s one star that they call the Wolf Star; apparently dogs howl at it from the ground.

But tonight’s different. The men aren’t teaching him anything; they’re all deep in their cups, preparing to make landfall the next day and go whoring after too long at sea. He and Davos sit in his cabin, making last minute preparations for when they make landfall.

The only problem is that Jon has no idea what he’s supposed to be preparing for. What kind of queen will he meet? Will she be the mad queen that Sansa seems to think she is, or will she be the woman he secretly hopes that she is? Will she realize the danger they’re in or will he think he’s lying for her throne?

He’s never liked being uncertain of things-especially people. Especially when so much depends on it.

“Well, I’ll be glad of one thing at least,” Davos says as they study a map of Dragonstone for the twelfth time tonight. “The weather in the South is much warmer than Winterfell.” 

Jon can barely remember what it’s like to be warm so he’s nearly always uncomfortable. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”

“Perhaps. I don’t think I ever would. I’ve heard there are nights so bitterly cold that even a raging fire can’t warm you.” 

“I wouldn’t know. I can’t remember the last Northern winter.” He doesn’t want to think about it anymore, especially not how corpses look when they’re frozen to death. 

He remembers the first time he saw one- one of Winterfell’s servants had frozen to death in his cottage and Jon and Robb had run to see the dead body before anyone could tell them not to. The man’s skin had gone almost purple and blue, swollen and distended. His eyes had stared out at them, wide and unseeing. It had been all Jon could do not to run away screaming.

“Winter makes men out of boys,” his father had told them when they reached the warmth of the castle again. “Never forget that. Never forget how lucky you are to live within warm stone walls, with food in your bellies and a fire in your grate-many, many others are not so lucky.” 

This, truly, is why he must press on-no matter who it is he meets inside Dragonstone. He knows if things go on this way much longer his stone walls won’t protect him-or anyone. They’ll all perish, their corpses littering the countryside until nothing living remains in Westeros. It’s a bitter secret, one he can trust with barely anyone.

He’s willing to hope that the Dragon Queen will believe him.

“Get some rest, Ser Davos,” he says now, stoking the fire at the foot of his bed. “We’ll have a long day tomorrow-and we must be prepared.”

iv.

The storm clouds have finally cleared up and weak sunlight shines down on Dragonstone. There was a bitter storm the night before; a fishing boat lies dashed to pieces on the shore. Thankfully, no one was hurt-but to Dany it seems to be a silent warning of what could await her in King’s Landing.

Jon Snow is due to arrive today. He could potentially be one of the strongest allies she has; the rest of her forces are still reeling from the attack by Euron Greyjoy. They need a win now, to boost morale more than anything else. 

“Tell me about Jon Snow again.” She sits on the throne (her throne; she’s still not used to the title), voice echoing around the cavernous space. Tyrion stands before her, turned slightly towards the window. “Do you believe he will bend the knee?”

“He’s not a fool-and he genuinely cares about his subjects, unlike many other men in power. But he can’t be easily bought and sold-unfortunately, his moral compass is too strong. And I doubt the North will be too happy to pass under Targaryen rule.” 

“Better a Targaryen than a Lannister.”

“If he has his way, he won’t have to kneel to either.” 

She sighs. “I don’t want to make another enemy.”

“No one does. Forgive me, your Grace, but these people have seen enough of war to last them a lifetime.”

Even so, she’s not convinced. “Northerners are barbarians and savages. They’re little better than dogs. My brother once told me they sleep with their dogs.”

“Your brother was disillusioned and a fool. He had good reason to hate the Starks. But now they may be the best chance you have.” 

She’s quiet for a moment. “But you trust him.”

“I trust him. He’s…quite different from many other people I know. You might even get along with him. In any case, you have something else in common apart from a common enemy.”

“And what is that?” What could she possibly have in common with a Stark, northern born and bred, when there's so much bad blood between them? 

“You both want to leave the world better than you found it.”

She’s about to say something else when they’re interrupted by shouting from outside. “Are they here?”

Tyrion glances outside again and nods. “Just as they said they would be. I’ll go and meet him.” They’ve discussed the need to put on a show, no matter what his intentions may be; Jon Snow must know that she is the most powerful woman in the room. And what better way to show that than to put her on a throne?

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion.”

He turns back towards her once and there is an inscrutable look in his eyes, one that she can’t read. “If I may, your Grace…try not to spill the blood of more innocents.”

“I will try my best.” With that he leaves, the door shuts behind him, and she’s left alone in the throne room with only a few silent guards to keep her company. For a moment her voice sticks in her throat and she’s almost frightened-but then she forces herself to sit up straighter, every bit the queen she is. 

Time to meet Jon Snow and see what he wants.

She knows, in one way or another, in some subconscious feeling hidden away too deep for her to recognize it for what it is, that this meeting will change everything-no matter how it turns out.


	6. A Private Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany have a quiet moment after their first meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written after 7.03
> 
> Enjoy!

He’s almost managed to convince himself that he heard nothing, just the wind whistling through Dragonstone’s ruined windows (it wouldn’t be the first time he’s been startled over something small like that) when he hears it again, coming from the door right beside him. 

Jon opens the door before he can think better of it and slips inside-but he stops so suddenly he practically trips over his own feet. The Dragon Queen sits on the window seat, looking out at the sea-and tears are streaming down her face, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. 

He wants to leave right away because the crying woman he sees now is so different from the calm, tough ruler who debated him in the throne room not five days past. To see her look so different, so…human…he isn’t sure what he makes of it. 

“Your Grace?”

She breaks off in the middle of a sob and gets to her feet, running her fingers through her long hair as if attempting to pull herself together before he can pass judgment on her. “Lord Snow.” 

“I didn’t mean to intrude-” Every nerve ending in his body is telling him to leave and forget what he walked in on in. He’s even turning towards the door when she calls him back. 

“No.” It’s firmer than he would have expected, though not harsher. In a way, she sounds almost resigned. “I mean,” she amends, “it’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh.”

She looks down at her hands, at the floor, at the edge of her sleeve-anywhere but at him. “We made a…miscalculation. We thought the Lannisters would be defending Casterly Rock, but they attacked Highgarden instead. Another one of our strongest and most trusted allies, gone.” 

A cold shiver of fear runs down his spine. Despite how hesitant he may be to trust her, she’s still much better than Cersei-and he doesn’t want to see her dead before she and her dragons can help him fight the Night King. Or after that, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t care if she takes the Iron Throne, so long as there’s still a Westeros left for her to rule. And he knows that losing three strong allies in a matter of weeks is not a good sign. “I’m sorry, your Grace.”

“The Tyrells were our strongest ally here in Westeros. I never expected-” She worries her lip, and it suddenly makes her look much younger, like she’s a girl just learning to play at war. Then just as suddenly she seems to realize who she’s talking to and the tough mask comes down again, all trace of fear and weakness swept away. “Well, I suppose nothing can be done about it now.”

“You still have three dragons. Cersei doesn’t have any weapons equal to that power, no matter who supports her.” 

She nods, slowly. “Yes, but…” She trails off again and moves to brush past him. 

But he stops her. Later, he doesn’t know why he does it-maybe it’s just something instinctual, from all the times he’s seen Sansa suffering with her own inner demons and wished that he could help her. Or maybe he’s just sick of sorrow. But either way she recoils from him as if he slapped her, looking into his face carefully as if looking for something only she can see. 

She looks away again, closes her eyes. “I cannot lose. If I do…if the battle is lost and there is no possible chance of victory…I will command one of my guards to kill me. The Mad Queen won’t take me alive.” 

For the first time, he realizes that she isn’t as sure about this as she seems-as she’s trying to be. She’s scared just like he is-although they’re afraid for different reasons, they fear the same outcome. “It won’t come to that.”

“You can’t know that. I used to not think it was possible but now…she’s cunning and wily and has far more political experience than I can ever hope to have-”

“But you fight for something worth more than fear and power-and sometimes that wins battles, though the odds may be uneven.”

“Sometimes…but not always.”

He knows the proper thing to do would pledge her his sword-but he can’t. Not now. “Well, if it’s any consolation…and I know it may not be…I believe in you. We may have our differences for now. You may not believe me. I’m not sure if I would believe you myself, if our roles were switched. I’m not here to take your throne. I’m not here to contest your right to it. I know how hard it must be for you to be planning this attack-but not an invasion-and all of a sudden along comes someone you’ve never met before, telling you to abandon it all because there’s an enemy that’s far more pressing-”

“I don’t want to talk about the Night King right now.” 

Sooner or later we’ll have to, he thinks. “I believe that you genuinely care about people, like I do. Your people have told me that. The Iron Throne needs a ruler like that. I truly hope things…never get to that point.”

The faintest edge of a smile plays on the side of her face. It makes him wonder again how someone can be so lovely-not that he thinks about that kind of thing much, of course, but he’s not blind. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the fact that they’re still at odds and have no idea what to do with each other-but they have a common ground now, and a common ideal. He knows how easily she could have invaded King’s Landing-and probably could, even now. But she hasn’t. And he believes, more than ever, that she is not like her father. “Thank you.” The words are barely a whisper. “And I wish you luck as well, Jon Snow. I hope the dragonglass you find will be enough.” She gives him one last look that he can’t interpret and then she leaves, cape moving softly on the ground behind her. 

But the tension between them feels considerably less heated.


	7. Dragonglass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on the cave scene in 7.04, pre episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kind of like another fic I wrote back in August called Impasse (which can also be found on my profile), but I wrote this one before I saw the episode (spoiler dodging is no easy feat heh).

The cave entrance was so well hidden that Dany would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking for it. As it was, her Dothraki had only found it the day before; they’d been combing the island for days in search of it. But every time they wanted to give up Jon would convince them not to…and eventually, their careful efforts had paid off.

“Are you sure about this, your Grace?” Missandei finished braiding her long hair, adjusting the dragon head pin on her dress so that it hung straight. “If you’d rather not-”

“I’m sure. It’s only a cave, after all. What’s so scary about caves?”

Missandei grinned. “The old ghiscari used to tell stories about dragons that lived in caves, from long forgotten times, guarding hoards of gold and precious jewels.”

“If there is a dragon in that cave, he must be a very small one. You know, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“And leave you alone with the King in the North? I think not.” The corners of her mouth turned up in just the faintest impression of a smile.

She shrugged. “As you wish. As long as you know that we won’t be doing anything terribly exciting.”

“You’ll be exploring a cave. I’d be disappointed if it was anything but exciting.”

 

They met Jon in front of the castle. Dany noticed, rather absentmindedly, that he was wearing a new doublet-he cut a rather dashing figure. He nodded once to Missandei and once to Dany. “My lady; your Grace.”

“How are you, Lord Snow?” There was less of a bite to the words; she would never have thought it possible, but she was growing used to the Northern king-even if he stubbornly refused to bend the knee.

“I’m well, your Grace. Better now that our journey has a purpose.” He led the way down the beach, footprints leaving tracks in the sand. Daenerys noticed that he carried a dagger; not his sword, but some kind of weapon…as if he feared what they might face in the cave. Or the knife might be meant for her…a shiver ran down her spine, even though Jon Snow hadn’t struck her as that kind of man. Even good men could sometimes be cruel.

The cave was nestled away in a hollow of rocks next to the waterfront, obscured at high tide. The doorway was small; Dany could step inside without ducking, but Missandei and Jon both looked uncomfortable until they’d made it past the initial entrance. Two of Dany’s guards entered last, wearing heavy armor even though the day was unseasonably warm.

They walked down a narrow pathway, lit only by the light of the torches Jon and the guards carried. Dany held out a hand to touch the rocks as she passed; they were cool and wet under her fingertips and the air felt still and hushed-almost expectant. She wondered how long it had been since other humans had walked here; the place felt neglected and disused, as if it hadn’t seen human beings in years. Perhaps centuries. Perhaps not since the First Men.

It seemed that they walked for a long time. No one talked; the only sounds were their boots on the rock floor and water dripping somewhere far away. She found her senses attuned to every sound; every rustle, every creak, every lap of the waves outside. Jon never stopped and his torch never wavered. The flickering firelight painted the side of his face in a warm red, illuminating more prominently than ever the hard lines of his cheekbones. She had to turn away; she was a queen, not a silly little girl. She had to focus.

Just then they reached a rise in the stone, where part of the ceiling had fallen in long before. Jon turned to her and took her hand before she could protest, helping her over the debris. She almost pulled away from him because the shock of his touch sent heat searing through her skin. As it was, she felt her breath catch in her throat and she hoped to death he couldn’t hear it.

She let go as soon as she was on solid ground, with a whispered “Thank you, Lord Snow,” trying not to let on how much her skin suddenly craved his touch. She couldn’t help noticing how his eyes lingered on her, just for a moment.

Missandei was looking at her as if to say I told you so and Dany pointedly did not respond.

The cave widened until it became a large, cavernous space with a high vaulted ceiling that was so high up she had to catch her breath. She’d just taken a step forward to examine it-it was so much bigger than she’d expected it would be-when she heard Missandei gasp and grab her elbow, pulling her backwards. “Your Grace!”

At first she didn’t see what the problem was-until the light from one of the torches glinted off the edge of what looked like a knife. Dragonglass. There were dozens of them, maybe even hundreds; tiny daggers no longer than her arm and broadswords that were half as tall as she was. They piled in the center of the room, stretching to a ceiling of rock some miles and miles above, glittering in the dim light. Again she got a feeling of history, profound and meaningful, practically weighing down on her shoulders. 

She heard Jon catch his breath, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing either. “I have to say, I didn’t expect…”

“So much of it?” She had to pinch herself and make sure this wasn’t some kind of dream and they were actually far below the surface of the earth, in a magical cave of magical weapons. “Me neither.” 

But if the swords were real…were the other things he’d talked about real too? 

“They’re yours, if you want them,” she said, picking one up carefully. She measured it in her hand; it was lighter than any dagger she’d ever held before, with a blade that was so dark it was almost black. She couldn’t see her reflection in it. Like an endless hole, it seemed to suck away what little light remained in the room. “Take as many as you’d like.”

She didn’t hear him come up behind her until he was practically breathing down her neck-until his fingers, soft and gentle, came up to cup her hand in his and gently close her fingers around the handle. “Then this one can be yours, Your Grace.” 

She was grateful he couldn’t see her face, because she was finding it very hard to keep her face expressionless. 

“I don’t need a dagger,” she replied. 

For a moment there was complete and utter silence-and then Jon said “Believe me, your Grace, you will.” 

They went from the cave in silence; Dany didn’t know what Jon was thinking about because she almost never did, but she was thinking about how they were going to get all of the dragonglass out of the cave. She wasn’t thinking about White Walkers, or even Lord Snow-how his hand had felt on hers, his fingers soft and gentle but still able to electrify her with a single touch. 

You can’t think this way, she thought. Of course he was handsome-and not only handsome, but thoughtful and considerate and genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of his people. But he wasn’t a friend, not yet. He wasn’t an enemy either, but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down around him. She was still a queen, and he was still a king. He was still in open rebellion against the crown. 

“I will instruct my men to remove the obsidian as soon as they can,” she said when they reached the castle again, still blinking in the sunshine. It seemed like an eternity had passed, and they’d left the world behind while they were in the cave-it was a shock to adjust to the late afternoon light. 

He nodded once, measured and evenly. “Thank you, your Grace.”

“Good afternoon.” She left him standing on the beach and hurried over the nearest ridge, with Missandei by her side. 

“Was that interesting?” Daenerys asked as soon as she and her advisor were safely inside the castle and the heavy stone doors had closed behind them. “I certainly hope you weren’t disappointed.” 

It seemed like it was all Missandei could do to keep a smile in check. “Of course not, your Grace. It was very interesting, and informative.” 

“Do you believe he’s telling the truth? About his children’s tales?”

She shrugged. “I hope not, your Grace. But…Lord Snow doesn’t seem like the kind of man who lies.”

As much as she hated to admit it, Dany was beginning to think she was right.


	8. A Quick Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon says goodbye to Dany before she burns the Lannister convoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written post 7.04, if I remember correctly. Just a short little missing scene. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“You don’t approve?”

“I didn’t say anything, your Grace.”

She sits on the chaise in front of her mirror, while she finishes braiding her hair down her back. He tries not to think about the fact that he’s practically standing in her bedchamber; she’s the one who invited him here, after all. 

The Queen wears a black ‘battle’ dress. That’s the easiest thing he can think to call it at least; the cut is simple and severe, but designed not to inhibit freedom of movement. He can honestly say he’s never seen anything like it; then again, most of the women he knows wouldn’t go rushing into battle in dresses or otherwise. Especially on dragonback. 

She doesn’t even seem nervous. Though he supposes that she shouldn’t be. She’ll be riding a dragon. Who can harm her? 

“You’ve been sulking for most of the day. Although you seem to do that most of the time anyway.”

“I’m not sulking. And I think you made the right choice by not destroying the Red Keep.”

She sighs. “I don’t have another choice. I need to even the odds, or I might as well surrender myself to the Kingslayer tonight and make it easier for everyone.”

“A pity I can’t come along. I’d like to see your dragons in battle.”

“One dragon. I’m just bringing Drogon.” She slides another pin into her hair and examines herself critically. “It’s a small convoy. And…if I fight in the North, I expect you’ll be able to see him in action yourself.” 

He notices that word. If. If he bends the knee. If he does what he told Mance Raydar to do so long ago. “Well, I wish you good luck on the battlefield.”

She stands and turns to face him for the first time. As always, he’s slightly taken aback by her height (or lack therof); she has the kind of personality that makes her seem much taller. But her eyes soften when they meet his. “Thank you, Lord Snow.” 

He has to force himself to look away, to not get lost in those eyes. “We should be nearly finished mining the dragonglass by the time you return.”

“That’s lovely to hear.” She takes half a step closer, and her hand brushes his own. She looks at it, almost taken aback-and then pulls her hand away, quickly, hiding it in the folds of her dress. “I imagine you must be pleased.”

There’s another pause, a moment of awkward silence, and then she turns on her heel and leaves the room. She’s almost halfway down the hall by the time he calls her back. “Your Grace?”

She looks back, curiously, and inclines her head just slightly. “Yes?”

“…Stay safe.”

Her smile is quick but light, like sunshine glancing off a crust of ice. It completely transforms her demeanor, and for a moment he’s not quite sure what to make of it. Of her. “Thank you.” 

He follows her back downstairs and watches her fly off on Drogon’s back, until she’s just a tiny dot in the fading sunlight. Dothraki hordes swarm the docks, arranging themselves into small units, preparing to board the waiting ships; he and Davos will remain to oversee what’s left of the dragonglass, and he knows that the castle will seem empty without so many. 

Davos is looking at him strangely when they go back into the castle. “Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“I’m not in love with her.”

His tone is somehow matter-of-fact and suggestive at the same time. “Of course not. That would be ridiculous.”

Absolutely ridiculous, Jon thinks.


	9. Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another goodbye-this one from Dany to Jon before he leaves to fly North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last little drabble I wrote during season 7 that wasn't a prompt-check out my blog @jonerys-snowborn-scribe on tumblr for all the fics, but all the fics I would have considered writing were eventually written for others as prompts. Or contact me on my other tumblr @blue-roses-in-a-wall-of-ice and request a prompt of your own :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

She knows she shouldn’t be going to his chambers, knows that there’s nothing she can say that will change his mind…but she has to try. 

Her feet travel of their own accord, mind spinning. stomach churning. She feels slightly ill and she doesn’t know why; it’s the same sick fear that’s hovered in her chest ever since Tyrion brought up the idea of a wight hunt in the first place and doubled when Jon volunteered to lead it. 

Come now, Daenerys, she thinks. She can’t say that she likes him now, after all that’s happened. He’s still her enemy. 

She shakes her head, even though there’s no one around to see her. Not an enemy. A friend. 

He has to be a friend, doesn’t he? Friends are people who smile when you smile, who make your heart fill with joy when you step into a room, and can make you laugh without trying. And Jon does that. She never realized it until now, never realized how much she might grow to love him until she might never see him again. 

She knows that it’s for the best. She was never supposed to like him, to see him as anything more than a subject. But here she is, outside his closed door, with her hand raised to knock and her heart in the back of her throat. 

She’s startled when the door opens and almost hits her in the face. Jon looks surprised to find her there, though she supposes that of course he would be. She’s almost surprised to be here herself. “Your Grace.”

“May I come in?”

He looks surprised, but waves her inside. “As you wish.”

She examines the room carefully-it’s spotless, as it was when he arrived. A trunk sits at the foot of his bed, packed and locked securely; there’s no other trace that he was here at all. Nothing to remember him by. He was only ever passing through anyway. He needed you, she thinks, to fight in the wars to come. “You’re packed.”

He nods. “We need to leave soon, before the waves get too rough.” 

There’s a silence between them, not companionable like most of their silences are, but fraught with unspoken tension. He knows why she’s here. He must. “Lord Snow-”

He sighs, deeply. “I have to lead them, your Grace. I’m their king. I swore an oath to protect them.” He’s so beautiful in the light filtering in from the window, shining off his dark eyes and hair. 

Not for the first time, she wonders how it would feel loose and woven around her fingers. 

“Don’t you trust me?” He throws his words back at her. 

She nods. “I trust you. But I don’t trust the dead men. You must know how dangerous it is-”

“It’s always been dangerous, your Grace. It always will be. But that won’t change until we fight them, and I can’t fight two wars at once. If this is what it takes to convince Cersei-”

“How do you know she’ll even agree to meet? How do you know she’ll agree to an armistice?” 

She can pinpoint the exact moment he snaps. “Well, it’s better than staying here and doing nothing.” 

“You’re no good to them dead.”

He’s silent for a minute as he looks at her, with something like surprise in his eyes. “I wouldn’t think that you’d care.”

“Me neither.” But maybe she does. A little bit. She looks down at the ring on her finger, twisting it around nervously. She can see her reflection in the bright silver, in the white mother of pearl inlay and the tiny three headed dragon sigil cut into the back. “You’re not what I expected.” 

“People very rarely are. You’ve certainly found ways to surprise me, your Grace.” 

“You touched Drogon. Weren’t you frightened?”

He looks taken aback. “I didn’t mean to. It just…I don’t know how to explain it. I could just feel that he wouldn’t hurt me.”

“That would be a hard thing to explain to your sister.”

His smile looks unexpected-and genuine. “You’re the Dragon Queen. I’m sure you would find a way, if you set your mind to it. Like you’ll win the war against Cersei and get your throne.” He doesn’t say what she knows he’s thinking: if they don’t die in the one against the dead first. 

“Come to my coronation. I’ll save you a seat.” 

“Maybe I will.” For a moment he looks almost confused…and then he looks away from her, almost embarrassed. “You asked me, earlier, about what Ser Davos said-”

She interrupts him, even though all she wants to do is listen to him talk. She’d listen to the cadence of his voice for hours and hours, if only it would make him stay. “Don’t tell me now. You can tell me when we see each other next, whenever that might be.”

A faint smile plays across his features. “Hopefully sooner rather than later.”

“I’m counting on it.” She slips the ring off her finger and places it in his palm. It’s far bigger than hers but it’s warm and soft. He looks down at her in disbelief as she curls his fingers around it, holding it tightly. “Take this, please. As a token of my favor in the battles to come.”

His expression is unreadable, but there’s a look in his eyes that makes her wonder if he’s about to kiss her. “Your Grace-”

“I insist.” The words take a bit of effort to get out, because she’s not used to saying them. “Your Grace.” 

He’s still staring at her, almost mesmerized. “I don’t have anything to give you-”

“I didn’t ask for anything in return-”

He pulls her close suddenly, but tenderly, arms holding her in a tight embrace. She closes her eyes on reflex, breathing in the smell of him-the smell of furs and wood and wide open spaces she’s never seen before. And underneath all of it, there’s just a hint of snow. When she looks up at him in curiosity, his lips brush her forehead and she can feel herself tremble under his touch. “It’s not much, but…”

“It does the job.” She disentangles herself carefully and takes a step back, her hand feeling suddenly exposed without the ring. 

The distance between them stretches like a cavern, impassable. 

Until she finds herself looping an arm through his, looking straight ahead. “May I escort you downstairs?” 

“I believe that’s my job,” he says, and he smiles at her-a real smile, one that makes her world shine a little brighter and does nothing to put her fear at ease. But he’s dead set on it and there’s nothing she can do to change his mind. 

Yes, she’ll miss him when he’s gone. She can only pretend for so long, even to herself.


End file.
